it’s not that complicated. just take the words that are forming in your head and hit the corresponding keys.

I think, and I think, and I think. Once I get about two or three sentences into my inner narrative I start to lose faith. The words get stale so quickly. Even now, none of this feels authentic. But this is silly. I’ve convinced myself somewhere along the way, that if I’m not writing blindly, then I’m not really writing.

It’s as if any sort of analysis is wrong. As if I should not take a moment to dissect how I express what I feel. As if that ruins it. Cheapens it.

I miss that desperation.

That ball in my throat that compelled me to write poetry, for better or worse. That rare confidence that needed no chemical prodding.

I would say once, ‘I do not think that I am the best writer, but I am as good as anyone who ever has.’ And God I fucking believed it. Is that still in me? I don’t think so. It’s okay that I don’t think so because I’m hardly ever right about things like this.

I’m going to write another review soon. I’ve been doing those periodically. Not nearly as much as I should.

I need to treat writing as I treat exercise. It is necessary and painful, but the satisfaction of it is rewarding.

I should say more about my life here. The day to day. Perhaps I will write poems about my day. Sometimes. It’s okay to hit backspace when I’m writing what I feel. I don’t know why that bothers me so much but it shouldn’t.

It’s okay to edit my thoughts. I will work on that. Through here. But enough for now.